


It's Like Learning How to Walk Again

by Lady In A Tux (CollateralDamage666)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-03-27
Packaged: 2017-12-06 16:15:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CollateralDamage666/pseuds/Lady%20In%20A%20Tux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's a bit different after his return.  He eats, for one thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Like Learning How to Walk Again

**Author's Note:**

> This was written at 2am for someone on Tumblr. I am so sorry.

Sherlock hovered over the back of John’s armchair, staring down at the shorter man as he slowly typed his newest blog entry with two fingers.  John heard Sherlock sniff in disdain as he typed out that Sherlock was in idiot.  The detective had been doing this frequently.  Hovering, that is.  He already did the judging before the fall, but never had he stayed behind John for so long.

John wondered if it was because Sherlock liked being back with John, not that the man would ever admit it.  Being close to Sherlock brought John comfort, to it was only normal that Sherlock felt the same way.  But this was Sherlock John was thinking about.  The man wasn’t exactly confined to emotional and social normalities set out by society.  But there was such a thing as too much, and Sherlock often pushed at the limit line until it broke.

He shifted, uncomfortable under the constant gaze, “Can I do something for you, Sherlock?”

Instead of responding, the younger man turned around and walked back to the kitchen, where he quietly settled back into his experiment.  When dinner time came around, Sherlock hadn’t returned to be by John, so engrossed in his experiments that he didn’t even hear John ask if he wanted any food.  So, without another word, John left the flat, completely quiet from Sherlock’s perspective.

Something nagged at Sherlock from the back of his head and eventually he looked up from where he was dripping acid on the toes.  Instinctively, he looked over toward the sitting room.  The back of John’s familiar head was nowhere in sight and Sherlock was on his feet in an instant, eyes searching for John anywhere.  It was completely quiet except for the outside noises creeping in through the windows and for a moment, a flash of panic gripped at his heart and he pulled out his cellphone to send a quick text to his friend.

**The drapes are on fire. – SH**

He waited for a moment before he heard the familiar rattling of a phone against a wood surface.  Digging through the papers on the table, he finally unearthed John’s cellphone from where he had been buried.  He opened the text to stare at his words and as his eyes glanced over the words, he noticed the time.  John usually ate dinner at this time.  He had gone out, that was all.  Feeling foolish, Sherlock deleted the evidence from John’s phone, followed quickly on his own.  He moved to go back to his experiment, but thought better of it and sat down on the sofa, legs curled up against his chest, to wait for John’s returned.

He hadn’t needed to wait long.  John must have been gone longer than he had thought.  He frowned.  He didn’t like feeling wrong so much all the time.  It was as if he was learning how it felt to live like Anderson.  It was awful.  John came through the door into the kitchen, pausing when he didn’t see Sherlock leaning over the table as he had when he left.  He peeked around the corner to find a disgruntled Sherlock curling in on himself and glaring at him.  John barely suppressed his need to roll his eyes and moved into the kitchen, pushing equipment out of the way to set down the Chinese food.

“I got you the usual, even though you never told me to.  I figured if you didn’t eat it tonight, you could just keep it in the fridge and eat it at a later date.  Or use it for an experiment, I really don’t care.”  John’s voice drifted around the corner and Sherlock slowly unfolded, walking into the kitchen to retrieve his food.  He wasn’t really that hungry, even if it was a break between cases, but he liked the quiet times together with John.  It felt like old times, back before the fall and before John headbutted him in the face after he returned.  He gave his nose a sympathetic touch as he padded into the kitchen.

He waited patiently as John served the food and reached for his helping when John was done.  John pulled it away from him, so he reached for it again.  It moved out of his reach again and he looked up with a frown, only to see John staring at him, head slightly tilted to the side, brows drawn in concern, and lips slightly pursed.  Sherlock’s frown deepened at the obvious concern written all over John’s body.  He didn’t need the man’s concern, so he turned to go back to the sofa without his food.

“You’re different.”  Sherlock stopped at the words, “And I’m not sure I understand this new you.”

Sherlock twirled with a snarl, snatching up his plate before John could move it again, along with a pair of chopsticks, “I never asked you to.”

John didn’t seem fazed by that, in fact it only seemed to bring a small smile to the man’s face.  He followed Sherlock back to the sitting room and, instead of sitting away from the man, he sat next to him on the sofa.  Sherlock cast him a suspicious glance out of the corner of his eye and poked at the food on his plate.  John, meanwhile was eating his food, reaching for the TV remote to turn on the telly, murmuring something about a Doctor Who marathon.  Sherlock groaned as the title left John’s mouth.  He had never understood the lure of the show.  It seemed so trivial and childish, not to mention unscientific.  More than half the things they did were scientifically impossible.

It quickly turned into background noise as Sherlock went back to picking at his food, eating a bit of it every now and again.  It wasn’t until five minutes later that he noticed that John’s attention was on him, nowhere near the stone angels on the screen.  He turned to look back, surprised when John didn’t even flinch away from his gaze as he usually did.  It seemed Sherlock wasn’t the only one who had changed during the time apart.

“Three years is a long time.  We were bound to emerge on the other side different,” John was smiling, setting down his food on his knee, and Sherlock was left wondering which of the two was really the “mind reader” in this situation.  Usually it was Sherlock with that title, but now it felt as though John had donned it for this conversation.  Sherlock was certain he wasn’t going to particularly enjoy what was to come.  He considered getting up and leaving John to his food and crap telly and retreating to his room, but before he could move, John continued.

“Of course, I never really understood you before.  But, now, your usual moods and quirks have shifted just a little and I have to reconfigure the part of my brain set aside for Sherlock Holmes,” he shoveled in a mouthful of food and Sherlock had to wait for him to chew and swallow, impatience eating at him, “I think I can manage that.”

Sherlock blinked and looked down at his hands.

“I know you don’t want to talk about what you did those years and I can understand that.  I’ve kept secrets from you about the war, at least I hope I have,” he smirked, “and it’s okay for you to keep things to yourself if that makes it easier for you-“

“I killed someone.”

John nearly choked on his next mouthful and had to take a few deep breaths before he set his plate down on the ground, forgotten for the meantime, and turned to look at Sherlock.  The detective placed his food down, too, hands awkwardly patting over his pants, pulling at imaginary lint in order to keep his fingers preoccupied.

“You killed someone?”

Sherlock glared at John.  He knew how much Sherlock hated to repeat himself.  John help up his hands in defense and cleared his throat.

“Who did you kill?”

“Sebastian Moran,” and before John could interrupt, he continued, “He was the assassin trained on you.  I made sure he didn’t die peacefully, but sometimes I think he’s still out there, somehow, waiting to make his move.”

There was that head tilting again, eyes trying to read Sherlock.  He made sure his face was like a mask, nothing to be read by the doctor.  His hands were still moving, though, never ceasing in their movement.  John reached out, hands covering his own and immediately they stilled under the weight and warmth of John’s rough hands.  On the TV someone was crying, but it was unimportant.  Everything was unimportant except John, sitting here next to him.

It was uncertain who moved first, but they found each other in the middle, lips meeting in a chaste kiss.  They moved away, both equally shocked until John’s lips curved up in to his familiar smirk and he moved forward again, bringing his hands off of Sherlock’s to curve one around the back of Sherlock’s neck, while the other lay flat against his chest.  He pulled Sherlock down for another kiss, this one longer than the first, with John’s tongue flicking out to lightly trace over Sherlock’s lips.  He pulled away from the kiss shivering, his hands clenched into fists in front of him, not sure what to do with them.  John brought the fists up to kiss them, his lips leaving his hands feeling as though they were on fire, which quickly built up and flared through his entire body.  Sherlock was certain he was blushing like the virgin he was, if John’s smirk was anything to go by.

“You okay?”  John’s eyes never left his and Sherlock swallowed heavily.  Was he okay with this.  He swooped down, leaving a quick kiss on John’s lips as a reply before settling back on the couch again, his food completely forgotten and growing colder by the minute now.  John picked his own back up again and turned so he could lean his back again Sherlock’s side.  Sherlock lifted his arm to let John under it, and let his fingers run down John ‘s right arm, rubbing circles in to his elbow.  Now there was no chance for either of them to concentrate on what was playing on the television, so lost in the heat of one another that it was like everything else had simply disappeared.

Their relation only grew closer and stronger after that night, both of them growing closer and learning each other all over again.  They told each other stories, filling in the three year gap in both of their lives with the other’s information, putting it all in place.  John moved into Sherlock room after only a few weeks, but it seemed as if they had been together longer than that.  John wondered why he had never realized his feelings before the fall, even with all the clues and words given to him by his ex-girlfriends.  Sherlock simply wondered why he felt like this toward John when he had never felt like this for any person before.  In the end he erased those thoughts because this was John and John wasn’t like any person he had met before.

Sherlock quickly changed back to how he had been before, hardly ever eating or sleeping, and John seemed to take comfort in it for a while until his basic doctor skills started back up and he pestered Sherlock to do a little bit of both.  Though he never really succeeded in getting Sherlock to comply to his wishes, but smiled with a shake of his head all the same.  Sometimes, during cases, when John was sleeping, Sherlock would climb into bed behind him, but never slept.  John would roll over in his sleep, instinctively nosing toward Sherlock’s warmth until he as pressed up against Sherlock’s chest, the younger man’s arms wrapped around him.  And while John slept on, folded up next to Sherlock, the detective’s mind would spin through deductions and facts.

Often, in the morning, John would wake up to Sherlock gone, his side of the bed cold as though he had never lain there that night.  But, John knew he had been there.  He always knew.  And, on rare occasions, and times between cases, he would wake up to find himself snuggled up to a sleeping Sherlock, right where he belonged.


End file.
